


Pieces of Times Long Past

by oudeteron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Ethics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oudeteron/pseuds/oudeteron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of loosely tied AD/GG one-shots, ranging from their one summer to Grindelwald's downfall and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With and Against

**Author's Note:**

> These were all written over a long span of time in no particular order; I've rearranged them here in a way I thought worked best, but time-skipping still occurs between the different "chapters". Predictably, the chapter titles in the collection originally went for the separate fics.

Albus is completely out of breath.

He doesn’t know why he is here, he should have left right away. There is no purpose to his presence now, not anymore, no formal trial in which he could play the chief witness, no need for elaboration on his part. What evidence does one need for crimes that had been flaunting themselves for years on end? Indeed, he should go out and face the fame, the journalists, the more imminent questions that will serve as guidelines for all those authors of the hour as they write their eulogies to sweep most of the wizarding world’s newspapers by tomorrow. And yet, he lingers in the antechamber of the cell, looking at the door which admitted the fallen warrior he had brought but a few trifling hours ago, not in the least mindful of his injuries or his robes stained with filth and possibly some blood.

“Dark Lord Grindelwald Defeated!” the headlines will exclaim, because there is just no way such a crucial shift in power could be glossed over. And that’s all they will say on the matter, albeit in a thousand different renditions, because there is also every way for the most sinister tyrant of the century to be remembered as nothing but that. Not a human like any other _(he wasn’t like any other, he wasn’t)_ , not a corrupt mind on its fated descent to damnation _(fate? what is fate to us?)_ , not even Gellert Grindelwald. A Dark Lord.

So the past will be past, once and for all.

 _The sun is shining, but they would like it to set already, so that there will be at least a temporary reprieve from the suffocating summer heat. When it does, the evenings are long and perfumed with all the beloved scents of the season, stretching beyond the horizon as the overlaying sky darkens._

It is he, Albus, who has destroyed him. Nobody else could have done, it’s true, but some acts are not redeemed by telling himself it was only necessity that had driven him to them.

 _In the room, there seems to be nothing but their files, heaps upon heaps of scrolls and books and papers strewn across the table and floor and bed. Gellert pushes some of them aside just before he drags him down, but Albus can’t even smirk at his impatience. They kiss and undress quickly, both thinking, no doubt, that the next time will give them a chance to do everything much slower._

There was no helping it, he knows. Gellert _(no, it was Grindelwald dictator Dark Lord)_ had to be stopped. This final outcome is nothing unexpected, is it – one of them simply had to prevail. Anybody else would have aimed to kill, that is also a fact. And hadn’t he delayed the battle enough?

Still he doesn’t want to discard Gellert here, in a prison of his own making. The building itself is hateful. But he is sure that if he hadn’t brought Gellert to Nurmengard himself, the destination preferred to the Aurors and Ministry officials would have been Azkaban, and that with the Dementors is so much worse. No, he should be glad that Gellert is here. He had abandoned Albus first, after all.

Gellert the traitor. Gellert the murderer.

 _Gellert, leaning down and smiling at him, although it’s so dark in their room that Albus can scarcely see it. The sheets are crumpled beneath them because the air is too sultry for them to abide even simply resting under the blanket, let alone seeking enjoyment there. Now, in the sweet short time before Albus can feel in himself the ultimate build-up to fulfilment, Gellert murmurs something to him about being beautiful or whatever it is that makes his breath ghost so deliciously over Albus’s skin, but even that does nothing to interrupt the intimacy of their bodies, the shivery pace of their motions that pushes them on. The night floats on a cloud of sensation._

No use crying over spilled milk – what’s done is done. At the end of the day, Albus will have to face the celebrations that to him merely resemble some sort of sanctioned hysteria. He will try to keep his public admonishments to a minimum, but a man of his importance can’t afford not being seen. He is obliged to offer moral support, to soothe the crowds of people who already take his word over any Minister’s, and of course that is what he will do because it is a million times easier to reassure others than to reassure himself.

 _They collapse finally in one tangle of sweaty limbs, luxuriating in the afterglow, their best hope being that unless something goes really wrong neither Aberforth nor Ariana will try to test the blocking charms they have put on the door to Albus’s bedroom. When they do let go of one another, it is only to clean themselves up, and then they are almost a single entity again. They tease each other for a while longer, but since it is obviously going nowhere, they eventually leave it at that. Albus doesn’t mind when Gellert turns to lay himself down facing away from him; it presents him with an opportunity to drape one arm around his friend’s torso from behind and nuzzle his neck a little instead of wishing him good night. Knowing Gellert, he will wake him up in a few hours anyway demanding either a continuation or an early start on compiling their notes. He is almost right, and they make love again in the morning._

“Professor Dumbledore?” It’s one of the new, hastily recruited prison guards who had replaced the old master’s minions, regarding him with awkward respect. A former student at Hogwarts, apparently, but Albus cannot recall which.

Albus stands up. “What is it?” There is an abrupt pang of pain in his ribcage, another in his leg.

“Do you wish to see Grindelwald? He has been interrogated and put into his cell.”

Does he wish to? Yes. But can he? Can he look at Gellert through prison bars and walk away?

“Thank you, but I am afraid I have to be off. Good luck, and be careful of him.” He means it the other way than the guard likely realises, but what does it matter? The stage has already been set.

And after he leaves, all through the ceremonious proceedings that he cannot bring himself to view as anything but insignificant parts of one pointless victory dance, he lies, making summarising statements that allow him to distance himself from the privileged position of a participant even as his conscience screams at him. Nobody out there notices, but then Albus does not expect they will.

 _This is his pleasure – this is his love._


	2. Delaying the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's enough to just hold on.

01.

It is late, and Albus can’t concentrate on anything but Gellert, the hands tugging on his hair, and the strange combination of light and shadow that has turned the room into a place out of a dream. He wants to hate how easily Gellert has changed him – at Hogwarts, it would have been nothing to stay awake and alert at his desk as long as necessary when there was work to be done. Now half the night always slips away before he even knows it, leaving the papers he and Gellert had been compiling an ugly mess for him to sort out in the morning.

 _It’s worth it. It is worth all of that and more._

When their lips meet, the touch feels like the origin and the end of everything to Albus. It cannot be; he has kissed before and will kiss again, most likely this very night. But Gellert has thoroughly intoxicated him. It is only when Albus’s hands sneak under the other’s shirt – to the skin itself, _finally_ – that the walls suddenly reverberate with a loud crash and all this luxurious familiarity is doomed to fade out. The shock couldn’t have been worse if a wild dragon had burned the entire house to the ground.

Through the agonizing seconds it takes Albus to recover, he can feel his whole body tremble. It hurts to be jolted out of such perfection, to be thrown back into the world Gellert has almost caused to disappear.

He has no choice but to get up (making a pathetic attempt at smoothing out the creases on his clothes) and give his sister’s name the customary form of excuse on his way out. As the door falls shut behind him, his struggle to preserve the last glimpse of his friend against whatever disaster he may find in Ariana’s bedroom begins.

02.

“How bad was it?”

Albus waits a moment to answer; re-activating the security charms on his door is a habit he would never dare try to break. If Aberforth feels compelled to berate him for every minute he spends with “that evil Durmstrang failure” instead of tending to his remaining family, Albus is far from lending more substance to those accusations. “The usual,” he finally replies, sitting down at the edge of the bed. “Her room was upside down, but luckily there was no serious damage. She’s asleep now.” To his relief, Gellert seems to have learned never to inquire about Albus’s other sibling in situations like this.

However, that is about the extent of his willingness to keep distance if the arms enveloping Albus from behind and the whisper in his ear are anything to go by. “Albus.” The tone has a certain edge to it, like a warning.

It is understood all too well. Throughout the speech that follows – _one day, people like Ariana will not stay locked up for their families to bear all the burden, just you wait, Albus, we will make it so_ – Albus keeps his eyes closed, listening, hoping. And he can’t resist – he never can – when Gellert stops silent and kisses his neck. His eyes open again then, so that he can watch Gellert fall back on the bed, smiling, inviting Albus to join him.

Such careless joy is the one thing Albus has never discovered in himself. But Gellert has more than enough of it to share.

 _Every time._

Giving in is no harder now than any other night.

03.

It’s late, almost early morning. But Albus is glad to be awake. The light has changed – the candle burned out to be replaced with the bluish tint of the sky, which is pouring in through the window already, weightless and comforting. At last, in these small hours of the morning, the air feels fresh. Or perhaps it is just lying close to Gellert with neither the obstruction of clothing nor the worse divide of anxiety between them that does the trick.

“So?” Gellert’s breath is heating up his neck. “Have I made you forget?” His hands are caressing Albus’s back gently, binding them together as much as all the rest.

“Until you brought it up, yes,” he can’t help teasing, and it is the proof of their alignment that Gellert only laughs and makes nothing of the complaint. It would be ungrateful, after all, to argue with the way they are.

 _Young – invincible – together._

And yet, a thousand miles below the surface, some inconsolable worry insists that Albus reassure himself _now_ , in one of those rare moments when it means nothing to tell everything. He has caught himself longing to hear that phrase said in his own voice – the one nobody will ever make him repeat.

“Gellert, you know I love you.”

 _It’s a matter of fact._

At first, the answer is a smile; then, a glance to the side; and at last, a confidently spoken, “I do.”

Among the three, there is one response Albus does not see.


	3. Mere Mortals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion of immortality, with unforeseen repercussions.

Yet another evening hunched over books, whispering tentative incantations, Gellert’s hair falling together with his, the shadows on yellowed paper flickering. The atmosphere of invoking ancient spells could be sacred, but it is summer and the air is heavy with heat, making the mood the perfect opposite of solemn Muggle cathedrals. Gellert’s breath ghosts over Albus’s face every now and then—and every time their eyes meet, the world tilts off its proper axis. Then they both return to the page, muttering softly each to himself, muttering together.

Tonight, Gellert’s hands are especially restless as they crawl over the table, the scattered notes, smooth out Gellert’s shirt, or idly twirl strands of his hair around one finger after another. Albus is on edge from the constant motion (more so than usual, that is—for whatever reason Gellert makes him feel both uncomfortable and achingly exhilarated), but he would be loath to say he minds. Just like he will not complain that their chairs are bumping into each other every other minute, making him wonder when he might find himself on the floor. And, again, he does not mind.

“Albus,” his friend addresses him finally, breaking their shared murmur of contemplation. “Your mind is elsewhere, I can tell.”

Albus is so taken aback that he simply stares before he manages to say anything. “Of course not. I was just going to say we had better—”

“Oh, come off it,” Gellert waves his hand. “If you were really working, you would already be suggesting something. You’re not paying attention to the books. You are paying attention to me.”

That is bold. “Why would I—what do you mean?”

“Never mind.” And now Gellert is smirking, but Albus is too annoyed with him to notice. They remain silent for a while, before Albus speaks up once more.

“I was going to ask you, in fact. Why do we need to be immortal? Why don’t we simply establish our rule and see to it that it is passed on?”

As soon as the question leaves him, he can sense Gellert’s impatience—no, annoyance. They have gone through the plan before, but much as Albus covets the Resurrection Stone, he cannot imagine living forever. Would it be even worth the trouble? Would he want to hover around for eternity, without a hope of rest at the end of it? Although, he has to admit, there would hardly _be_ any end.

“Listen,” Gellert starts, visibly cautious and prepared to press his point. “Being immortal makes our plan perfect. For as long as we can be disposed of, as long as everything we’ve worked to accomplish can decay without us, how can we say we truly succeeded? Albus, don’t you see? All the empires that came to flourish under one man, only to be ruined by the next. Time is the last enemy we will need to conquer,” (he breathes out the word, softly, greedily) “and we will.”

It is a good argument, but Albus is not convinced. Rationally, he is—but there is something else, something that baffles and upsets him. He is sure that Gellert knows as well as he himself.

“Well, consider this.” Gellert’s eyes are alight, and it’s the kind of illumination Albus has only seen when they come up with a theory of particular ingenuity. “Point out one situation,” Gellert continues, “one situation when it is more advantageous to be mortal.”

There is no hesitation on Albus’s part this time. He says, “When your loved ones are.”

Interestingly enough, Gellert smiles victoriously, and it is a smile of such magnitude that Albus cannot shake off its image long after Gellert has resumed speaking. “But this is precisely what we can set right! You will always be able to bring them back. Not only once as you’ve imagined,” (here, Albus instinctively stiffens, wondering how Gellert could have guessed something he had never outright mentioned) “but as many times as you want if the effect of the Stone turns out to be temporary. We only need to find out how often, if necessary, the process needs repeating. We can test it out on others if you prefer.”

“Others?”

“Criminals, prisoners, whoever,” Gellert replies promptly, but Albus flashes him such a look that he refrains from elaborating. “At any rate, my friend, giving up our well-earned immortality is something we should not be so concerned about.” He fixes Albus with his gaze again, unrelenting, challenging. “Not now, at the very least.”

As always in such situations, Albus sees it best not to argue. Nevertheless, he is almost persuaded. He will give the matter some independent thought, over and over in the years to come, and act on his own conscience first of all. Gellert does have a point, though; he must give him that. “We’re not there yet.”

“No.” Eye contact again, more intense each time it occurs. “But we need not dwell on death. Death is only fear,” he looks at Albus pensively, “and fear is ignorance.” He clasps Albus’s hand.

Albus has a hard time willing his body not to shake. The mere fact that he is so quiet this evening, more of a listener than a speaker of equal potential, is strange in itself. But once again, Gellert has a point.

“The ancient Greeks had a ritual of death,” Gellert whispers, inching closer, but not close enough for Albus to really feel him yet.

“Yes, the Eleusinian Mysteries. I know.” It is hard to resist the image, or at least his own interpretation of the ritual, seeing as whatever transpired there was traditionally kept private by its participants. All the same, Albus can see it, has read about it and has wondered—even emperors bowing before death, embracing it, ruling it. It is a pity not to know what exactly took place. Like so many remarkable people, the first-hand witnesses are history, as unfathomable as can be to his time. Who can bring clarity now that they are gone, and with them their entire world?

Gellert does indeed have a point.

But Albus is aware of another element: the fear. Or humility, come to think of it. He can tell Gellert is transfixed with him now; he uses that to raise the objection, although it pains him to do so, “Gellert, we’re no Greeks.”

“Isn’t that sad, though,” Gellert counters, not even bothering to make it an inquiry. “But our way will be different.”

A different way, the Hallows—yes, it would be. Will be, if only they try hard enough. For the moment, Albus is at a loss for words, and he kisses Gellert’s lips in pious concession. They both must have known it would come to this.

Gellert leans in and grips Albus’s hand tighter.

*

Albus is staring out the window, staring off into space. Every now and then the glass is hit by tumbling leaves—red, orange, yellow, all of them entirely too bright for his mood. He cracks the window open for good measure, although it is evening and the current temperature is barely tolerable. The house is just too quiet with only him and Aberforth in it.

There he was, flirting with the thought of mastering death, and look what a result it has led to. The coldness outside is too appropriate. He is alone, more so than he has ever been, and he is guilty. It matters none whose spell dealt the killing blow; it is enough that he had allowed the original argument to escalate into a duel that could only spin out of control. With Ariana joining his family’s dead, Aberforth not speaking to him, and Gellert gone—Albus physically winces at the summary—it is no wonder the chill becomes him.

 _When your loved ones are mortal._ Or, perhaps, when love itself is.

The idea of living forever with such knowledge makes him shudder, something even the enshrouding cold has until now failed to do. At the end of the day, Albus decides, there really is something to be said for being mortal.


	4. Changed Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Gellert's departure, Albus has nothing to do but wait for Elphias to return for his sister's funeral. Or so it would seem.

He wakes up every morning and every morning he finds something missing.

The warm body beside his own is not there. True, Gellert had not stayed every night, certainly not at the start – but when he did, the feel of drifting into familiarity before Albus’s eyes opened was glorious. Now, the lips he would have kissed are sadly nonexistent. He tries to go back to sleep. The first few minutes of consciousness are always the most painful.

But still he rises, out of responsibility or defiance or even the sheer force of habit, and wanders about the house. Aberforth glares at him, but beneath that is anguish too, and Albus finds it hard to argue with anything while exposed to that gaze. The cottage seems as though its two remaining occupants were just a hassle, what with the ones who mattered gone without return. Empty, accusing, ominous. Please, Gellert, don’t leave me here.

In the beginning of the summer, Albus had thought things could never get worse than they already were for someone condemned to languish along with his ill sister. In the middle, he was positive that he had never been happier. But now, the end is the end. Running into Aberforth around the house (which is infrequent as he has apparently determined to only come in contact with Albus at breakfast and dinner), he wishes he could take Ariana in his arms and tell her that nothing was wrong, that one day she would be running in the sunshine, she would be happy, she would be proud . . .

He wants to hold Gellert, too, in a different way. He doesn’t know which of these yearnings is more impossible. Both are even more impossible than forgetting.

The solitude fades into night more and more quickly every evening. It has only been a few days, but it seems to Albus that Elphias is taking forever to arrive for the funeral. Instead of sleeping he reads through all those letters he had received over the two months – _The ones you couldn’t care less about when_ he _was here?_ Albus sighs, eyelids drooping as he pushes on through the tedious lines. “Dear Albus, I am doing well. Egypt is wonderful. All those monuments breathe of the past and ancient magic. The heat would kill you, the Muggle excavations are quite impressive, _et caetera_.” He would have liked to see it once, Egypt. When those pyramids were new, possibly. Once upon a time, he knew even how to listen to his friend without feeling the unwelcome sting of condescension.

The letters are the only speaking things. The only things to speak to anymore. “Dear Elphias – Thank you for keeping me up to date. I regret to say that I have done less fine a job of it than you seem to have managed. Let us catch up, then, shall we? As you may have heard, my sister is dead. Aberforth keeping his distance, seething, I imagine. Oh, and I have had my heart broken by a boy expelled from Durmstrang, younger than me. I’m sorry I have not written. You will, I trust, forgive my negligence now that you can see that it was justified . . .”

Of course he will never send these letters. He has sent the sad, silent ones instead, and none of them apologetic enough. Elphias promises to return in time and he will stay true to his word; there is no reason he would not. The good friend without lofty dreams that he dares to kill for. The one Albus never learned to appreciate.

 _Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._ Gellert. His heart might now be anywhere.

Albus falls asleep, finally, and all is quiet.


	5. Unlike Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me, Harry, inflamed me. Muggles forced into subservience. We wizards triumphant. Grindelwald and I, the glorious young leaders of the revolution.”_  
>  \--Dumbledore in _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

Albus Dumbledore never claimed that he liked Gellert Grindelwald.

It would be an unfortunate word to use, this _like_. Too weak, certainly. He liked pleasant things and pleasant people, the way he liked his studies or Elphias Doge. Yet at the same time, being able to say that he liked Gellert would at least have a sense of permanence, the subtle underlying cause of a great explosion. Perhaps the feeling would always have remained, perhaps it would have been harmless.

But Albus loved Gellert, and therein lay the difference. Albus loved him, obsessed over him, and missed him. Contemplated him, wanted him, thought he surely would die without him, dreamed of him.

Same for Gellert’s reckless mind. At first, Albus was intrigued by it—and before long that very mind was challenging him continuously, going everywhere his own had feared to penetrate, certainly going everywhere at once. Albus followed—he raced it sometimes, while other times let his own thoughts mingle; this, finally, was unity. Perfection. Power. Gellert’s ideas flowed far more easily than his and led him down the most rewarding path of all.

Yes, Albus thirsted for Gellert’s mind. He did not “like” it.

And then one morning that glass tower collapsed, every bitter shard digging into his skin. Albus still loved Gellert then, no matter how hard he willed that emotion to shift towards hatred. He had become too absorbed, and it would track him to the edge of life.

Albus did not like Gellert Grindelwald. That was his tragedy.


	6. Inaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus enjoys no calm on quiet days.

One would think, given all the tasks Albus Dumbledore needs to accomplish every day, that his life would be a flurry of motion with barely any time for rest. And it is. Outside, everything is stark and fast and frenziedly logical.

It would also seem that his famed mind’s capacity would be too great to allow for detaching itself from all reflection if sufficiently distracted by these daily goals—and it is. Albus thinks no matter what he does, usually preoccupied with one thing and contemplating another. He struggles against this habit at times when he wishes nothing more than to simply be, but even then he knows it’s as impossible to abandon his ways as it would be to suppress his fondness for sweets of all sorts. His mind has led him all his life—for better or for worse—and will continue to be his trusty guide, right up the steep slope to the inevitable end.

Days, nights sometimes blur into one indefinable in-between, and always Albus thinks restlessly. His friends assume that inaction would be too painful for a man such as him to bear—and it is. Sometimes, it seems that the necessity of his pursuit of what needs to be done is double: for the wizarding world at large as well as for Albus himself. The more exhausting a task, the more welcome its effect of filling his time with everything but recollections.

When, occasionally, Albus does find himself alone with nothing to do, he tries to maintain his composure. There is, after all, no one to witness the fight. He reads, he outlines his new article for one high-profile periodical or another, he converses with the portraits in his office, he paces. But sometimes his path strays towards the Pensieve or his mind starts to wander, and the room is filled with the scent of summer or with the deadly rustle of spells. Faded snippets of action, movement, sense. Albus’s eyes fall closed, and he can no more resist the pull of all these things than he can forget their distant origins.

He goes through everything in his waking dreams until he goes to bed, and then he makes his peace with the shadow. Most would find the fact that Albus Dumbledore, of all people, still thinks of a former terror of Europe with feelings other than righteousness and loathing a disgraceful revelation. Some would not, perhaps, but they would never quite grasp his reluctance to stop dwelling on the past. A few would observe that it is not so surprising for Albus Dumbledore to be at the mercy of his own feelings, considering how often he had plucked the reason for the behaviour of others from their emotional state, and considering that he always has placed a great deal of importance on love. This is what makes him Albus Dumbledore. He might, after all, be only behaving in the manner most natural to him when it puts no others in any danger.

And he is.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 100-word drabbles originally written as gifts/prompt responses.

_Down to an Art_

Gellert is unquestionably the fiercest person Albus has ever known. His movements are sharp, like his eyes, and like his tone when he speaks, determined to dazzle his only listener. Albus is aware of this, but admires the other’s nonchalance, the pride Gellert takes in his own abilities in a way Albus himself never could, that much more for it. And although they enjoy passionate debates, Albus remains captivated throughout – as if in flames.

But despite it all, glancing at Gellert’s unusually peaceful face upon sunrise for the very first time, Albus has to think of a glorious winter morning.

 

 _Silent Exultation_

The rain pelting down is the most exhilarating sensation Albus has ever experienced – but that may have something to do with his lips gliding along Gellert’s neck. The two of them have taken refuge behind a bush, also dripping wet, shielding them from view as they cling hotly to each other. The kiss that comes later is sloppy but wonderful, and when Albus pulls away, he feels the warmth of the other’s breath on his face, laboured little gasps passing between lips gleaming like polished ruby. And Gellert draws him closer.

They vanish together in a shroud of pearl-coloured mist.

 

 _Eternity_

The memories swirl like smoke on the smooth, revealing surface of the Pensieve as Albus adds them in, each one lighter than a feather and just as beautiful. He doesn’t have the heart to examine them at any great length; they are still strangely fresh, with sharp edges that can cut right through, as if they refused to even acknowledge that several decades have passed since they were new. But Albus is not like them. He no longer believes in eternal youth – let alone eternal life.

Because all he has is the everlasting memory, fragile like a piece of glass.

 

 _Forever and Never_

Sometimes, like on this day in winter, Albus wishes to wipe his memory blank or turn back time. He suspects—he knows—that he has enough magical ability to accomplish either, but he will always stop short. Perhaps he is slipping into habits of old age; an amusing prospect, he finds, although it indeed is too late to forget the past that has shaped him now. He has accepted.

Whirling snowflakes. Long ago, he looked forward to such winters with Gellert—Gellert with his gaze sharp as December wind. With Gellert, always and never.

In truth, it only was once.


	8. Better Left Unsaid

The look in his eyes is blank for a moment—then it comes into focus, and Albus almost stumbles backwards beneath it. There is no remorse in that hardened gaze, only knowledge. The kind of knowledge Albus desperately lacks, knowing that he will never gather the courage to pursue its truth in reality.

Gellert looks up from the fallen body. Looks up from the sobbing Aberforth. And quietly turns to walk away.

Albus makes no attempt to halt the inevitable—already his knees are about to give out. No use running after Gellert now. What is there to be said?

*

The silhouette of Nurmengard is a gloom against the sky. Albus watches it emerge from the mists; he is tired, his robes like a second skin that has been stretched beyond capacity. It is a cold evening.

Gellert—Grindelwald is finally subdued. There will be peace in Europe—until another Dark Lord comes about, but it will never be the same, not again. They are both too far gone now, the only variable being the price left for each of them to pay.

The tower traps the last flash of a familiar face, and there is nothing to be said.


End file.
